


It's You I Welcome Death With

by mollytea



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Apocalypse, As the world caves in, Depression, End of the World, Falling In Love, Gun Violence, Hot Weather, Kinda?, Love, M/M, Men Crying, No Smut, PLEASE DM ME IF U HAVE SPECIFIC QUESTION ON TRIGGERS, References to the Beatles, Requited Love, Riots, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, bertie gilbert film, i know these tags are scary, it's not violent but could be triggering, rocks that bleed, so many feeings, was another inspiration, wholesome dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29340270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollytea/pseuds/mollytea
Summary: completed oneshot // Earth's days are dwindling down as the sun begins to explode into a supernova, but love--stubbornly--will not burn out with it. On his last day alive, George has accepted that he will spend it alone. Already grieving his missing lover, George begins to consider taking the easy way out, but the tiny hope instilled by Clay keeps him hanging on just a little longer.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	It's You I Welcome Death With

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic includes depressive, suicidal thoughts in the first half so please be cautious! Non-violent, but still present ideas of gun violence and rioting. This is a oneshot I wrote for a competition, my twitter is @mollynotfound_ if you want to dm me about any questions or tweet me with how you liked it! Positive comments are encouraged :) More published works are on my AO3!
> 
> **IF CC'S BECOME UNCOMFORTABLE, IT WILL BE TAKEN DOWN**

George toys with the Glock 43 in-between his thin fingers, tears dripping onto the warm metal. The gun shakes in his hands as silent sobs contract his body, and the bright daylight catches the gun in just the right way to temporary blind him. He scowls, crudely checking his phone at the time, which reads a mocking 2 a.m. His phone is empty of notifications, the fact of which sends more tears tumbling down his sweaty face.

 _Where was he?_ He wondered for the millionth time, heart sinking impossibly fast at the theory that had been gnawing at the back of his head for over an hour.

Clay must have been trampled or killed amongst the riots, anarchy, and chaos in the streets. There had come a point where George could not distinguish the screams and sobs of terror from the shattering windows of buildings, the gunshots ringing out as panicked citizens fought tooth-and-nail to gain some kind of control.

George smirks humorlessly. _Control_. He’s no better than the looters when it came down to it. Shooting citizens, shooting himself, what difference is there? They are all trying to escape their inevitable fate, waving guns around as if the method of execution makes any difference.

Truthfully, he doesn’t want to die. It feels like a childish admittance, like being afraid of the dark or monsters in the closet. But there was a primal necessity to it, to fear the unknown lurking just out of reach with a presence demanding to be felt. His terror permanently settles at the bottom of his stomach, tears and sweat indistinguishable as he slumps on the kitchen floor.

The tile is _warm_. Like concrete on a summer day, heat seems to pass between himself and the tile, trying to decide which surface is cooler. He thought he had accepted his fate years ago—the sun’s supernova was rumored to occur at any point within the past three years, and since then the usual patterns of life had fallen into disarray. Many had tried to keep themselves isolated from others, the uncertain time bomb dissuading most from making new connections with others. After all, they would just be another person to grieve in the end. They busied themselves at home instead, filling their tubs up with water and ice as if it would end up doing anything but boiling them alive.

George tried to isolate himself—really, he did. He had bid his parents farewell many months ago when they decided to travel north like the melting icecaps could save them. He let his friendships fizzle out like water on the sidewalk, the importance of social circles evaporating as the Earth charged toward the sun.

He hadn’t planned on the supernova ruining his life, but he adjusted. He accepted a long time ago that he will never fall in love, never grow old with someone, never raise children, or even move out of his apartment. But almost immediately as he settled into his dismal routine to run out the clock, he met Clay among the riots.

George certainly did not intend to fall in love months before the end of the world. But between Clay’s unusual optimism and inherent selflessness, he gave George something to live for. Since meeting Clay and his sister, his harsh views on survivors began to soften.

But that has changed now. Over an hour past their meeting time and there’s no sign of Clay. With every passing minute, George feels the bitterness of his old survival instincts creep back in. But despite the heavy weight of his circumstances, he still finds himself hesitating. His hand is shaking around an express ticket to the end of this never-ending heat, but any guts he has to _do it_ are gone. That damn blonde really has done a number on him.

The only fixed thing on his agenda was dying. Until now, he thought he had one choice.

The Glock 43 stares back at him, grey metal stiff and honest.

George checks his phone again, the blank lock screen sending a crack through his sternum and stomach.

 _He isn’t coming_.

A sob wracks through his body at the realization. When was the last time he saw Clay? It must have been days ago when they risked the grocery store together. They held each other as they trembled like the aisle shelves when gunshots reverberated against the store walls. Clay had kissed his shaky hand, and though his lips were dry, George could not imagine a better feeling in the world. When they parted, they said goodbye like it was the last time—they always had to. Nothing was certain.

Until now, they had no timeline of when they would bid farewell forever.

George supposes their final goodbye already happened.

A loud _pound_ on the door interrupts his melancholy reminiscing. He leaps to his feet, fighting the black dots flooding his vision that beg him to sit down, and aims his gun at the door.

His heart races—would looters even try this building? George had assumed that he’s the only resident left, but again the door shook under the weight of another hit.

“George?” a weary voice called from the other side of the door, melting him faster than the sun ever could.

He places the gun down on the island at once, feeling like he can breathe again now that it’s out of his hands. George rushes to the door and swings it open—he almost cries again at the sight.

Clay was sweating profusely, his blond hair dripping with sweat and secured haphazardly with a bandana. His green eyes reminded George of the crunch of cold grapes and iced tea, and he realizes he wants to die looking at him.

Though their skin is already warm, George attacks Clay in a fierce hug. The taller man wraps his arms around him immediately, burying his face in George’s shoulder and running his hand through his dark hair. The sensation spreads through George’s body like a live wire. “I didn’t know if you were still here, I thought you might have gone to one of the churches or to your parents.”

George pulls them apart, tracing his pale hand down Clay’s sweaty jawline. He never wants to let go of him, as if the second his fingers leave his skin the world will end. “No,” he murmurs. “I was waiting for you to find me here.”

Clay smiles sadly, the delicate pink of his lips pulling up gently and George savors the sight. “I brought wine.”

~

It’s a sweet apple white wine, and they use the last of George’s ice cubes to chill their drinks. The ice seems to melt in minutes, but the sweet cold wine provides a relief from the concrete oven of his apartment.

They sit next to each other on George’s kitchen floor, cross-legged and resting their heads together. Neither know what to say, so instead they intertwine their fingers and lightly comment on the wine.

Soon, they fall into a heavy silence. Clay squeezes George’s finger to get his attention. “You weren’t gonna…” Clay trails off, gesturing to the gun on the table. “If I didn’t come?”

George’s heart wrenches. “I-I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it, you’re here now so—”

Clay straightens up, causing George to glance up at him mid-sentence. Clay places a kiss on his forehead. His lips are wet and cold from the wine and George nearly cries at the feeling. “I’m sorry I was late. Kara wanted to go to the church, so we had to say our… our goodbyes.” His voice strains from the tears threatening to spill.

George saddens, curling into Clay as if his company would dampen the grief of leaving his sister. He can’t imagine what it would feel like to walk away from his younger sister for the last time, finally beaten by a problem he couldn’t save her from. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Clay nods silently against his head, a heavy sigh sinking him further into the brunet. “I don’t know about you, but I’m damn tired of being sad.”

George can’t help but smile, the feeling of which is now unfamiliar and courses a flurry of lightness through his body. “How do we stop being sad?”

Clay asks to see George’s phone, and he obliges. “I have just the thing.”

After a moment of tapping on his phone, Clay bites back a grin and turns to watch George’s face as he presses Play.

The beginning notes of _Here Comes the Sun_ pour out of the tiny speakers, the twangy guitar brilliantly happy. “Oh my god, you didn’t,” George grins slowly, a laugh escaping his lips.

“What, you don’t like _The Beatles?_ ” Clay plays, faking a look of confusion that is soon fractured by his earth-shattering smile. George can see the sweat dotting his upper lip and ghosting his freckles. As the baseline kicks in, he feels a sudden surge of energy. George stands up, lightly singing along to the melodic tune that drifts through the hazy brightness. “Wait, what are you—” He’s pulled to his feet by George, who smiles at Clay like he’s the only good thing left in this world.

He places his hands on Clay’s slick shoulders, swaying dramatically until Clay catches on, laying his hands around George’s waist and pulling him closer. Soon, they both are swaying to the joyous melody and crudely singing the lyrics as well as the guitar riffs.

Clay attempts to spin George, which only ends in a fit of giggles and twisted arms. George pulls away to take another sip of the apple wine, smiling at the taste and at this wonderful boy he’s spending his last day with.

As soon as he puts his glass down, he’s pulled in by Clay, his face only inches from him. The music swells, and Clay resumes his singing. “ _Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting—_ ”

“No shit,” George giggles. Clay laughs, throwing his head back and tightening his grip on George’s waist. “This song is ridiculous,” he concludes.

“It’s perfect and you know it,” Clay beams, running his hand through George’s hair again.

“It is,” George breathes, closing his eyes at the comfort of the action. He leans in, resting his head on Clay’s collarbone and breathes in his scent. He’s never felt more at home. The thought makes him smile into the boy’s skin, and he finally feels the weightless happiness of contentment.


End file.
